2/29/2004

And the winner is... :  Steve Goodwin wins last month's caption competition. Hurrah. New photo posted today. More fabulous prizes could be yours.
posted by Garreth at 11:53 PM

Leprecon :  I totally failed to attend any Santacon events last year. To make up, I am in the home of Santacon, Austin, and on Saint Patrick's day, March 17th, I fully intend to participate in the anarchy of Leprecon. Think "nothing on earth can stop the force of 200 santas" and replace "santas" with "leprechauns". Out with the red, in with the green. Badda-bing badda-bong.
posted by Garreth at 10:27 PM

Vehicular archaeology :  I investigated the nether regions of the 900 this afternoon. All sorts of questions were left unanswered. What is the electric motor in the boot for? Why are there two spare wheels in the boot? What is the mysterious unmarked red button for? What does the mysterious unmarked grey button do? Why won't the car start now that I've pressed both of the buttons repeatedly? Arse.
posted by Garreth at 5:08 PM

Running Scared :  Carl Lewis has pulled out of our 10k race in Austin next Saturday. He must have found out I was running - even though I haven't filled in a registration form for the inappropriately named "Carl Lewis 10k". I managed to run three whole kilometres yesterday - maybe he saw me on the hoof and changed his mind. Ben Johnson was faster than Lewis, but doesn't make too many appearances. Odd that.
posted by Garreth at 2:30 PM

Pimpin' ain't easy :  So I didn't get a Lincoln Town Car. But I did buy a shiny new Saab 900 Turbo. It's not particularly new (1985), it certainly doesn't shine, and the turbo doesn't work. If someone who worked for Saab saw it, they'd probably chisel off the Saab badge. So in reality, I have a 900. No longer am I a member of the transportless dispossessed and disenfranchised underclass. I am part of the red leather cosetted driving elite. Consequently I have been promoted from just a light and sound man. Now I am a gopher in waiting at the Hyde Park Theatre. Last night I had to go on a knicker-run for one of the show's lap-dancers for example. I'm sure Spielberg probably started like this, with a 900.
posted by Garreth at 1:22 PM

Things to do in Austin, part three :  Go to some bars. Drink. Go to the Ritz. Play pool. Play table football, and lament the American custom of using three men on the goal-keeping rod. Refuse to call it Foosball. Play air hockey, and note with drunken interest that the air hockey world championship is coming up in Vegas soon, and wonder how hard it can be to sneak seven pucks past someone's hand for 12,000 bones. Think about serving the puck into your oppositions knuckles to get the advantage, and start to imagine spending the prize money on steaks and lobsters in a huge hot tub in the presidential suite at Circus Circus.

Lose at air hockey and trudge with disbelief to Casino El Camino. Order a burger. Tell the inquisitive bar man that yes, you are from England. Nod with interest when he tells you he is a big fan of England, and peer closely at the tattoo he is showing you in the murky red light. Try to make out what it is a tattoo of as he looks at you expectantly. "Um..." and "Errr..." a bit, until he tells you it's the Doctor Who logo. Make a mental note not to get an illegible tattoo, and then hoot with glee as they put on the title song from Convoy, by C.W. McCall. Let them truckers roll, 10-4.
posted by Garreth at 11:37 AM

2/27/2004

Urbane assualt squad :  Spin.
I wanted to give something back to the community that has treated me so well. That's why I started teaching people to breakdance while my clothes are spinning in the wheels of steel in the local laundry. Free classes every Monday at 45th and Speedway. Bring some music.

posted by Garreth at 11:43 AM

Landing strips for gay aliens :  You know what Stuart? I like you. You're not like the other people here in Austin. They're all liberal permissives. Don't get me wrong, they're all decent folk. Except for the loose morals and the bubonic tacos. They like to sit around in dark bars with red lights, and kick back with Jim and Jack all night long.

Anyway, that Mario Linguine kid, he was poking fun at the rest of the kids in borstal the other day. He's an Eye-talian - says that in Eye-taly, no-one wants to grow up to be a fireman, they all want to be Ferrari drivers. They want to smear their knees onto the engine of a supercar as it disinitegrates into the walls of one of those casinos in the Monaco grand-prix.

But that little Erehard boy, the one who's mother lost a leg on the waltzers at Magic Mountain? Well he pipes up and says he wants to drive oil tankers when he grows up. That's why he's always boosting Lincoln Continentals. Now the '86 model is a classic. 5 liter plant, almost 5 tonnes of street barge. Pure luxury too, so everything's electric - even though you have to start turning an hour and a half before you get to a corner. They have special tarmac circles built on floating foundations in the sea on the East and West coasts so you can turn the things when you run out of highway.

But those punks are all wrong, Stuart. If you're going to take to the roads, you gotta have protection. What with the high plains werewolves and the urban vampires. You've seen the vampires. Faces smeared in makeup. Drinking blood in dingy nightclubs. With rollerskates on. So that's why I got me a silver bullet. Imported from Van Helsing country - somewhere in Scandanavia. I got me a silver Saab 900. Ain't no-one gonna mess with me. You know what, I like you Stuart. You're not like the other vampires, here in the trailer park.
posted by Garreth at 11:26 AM

Top tips for gaining US citizenship :  "Don't marry an Indian Squaw to get citizenship - it didn't work for Uncle Steve." - this top tip was brought to you by my my father in an email today.
posted by Garreth at 10:49 AM

2/25/2004

The scene in many Austin bedrooms :  She came home at 3am, smelling of cigarettes, cheap beer and urine. She tried to get undressed quietly, as if to sneak into bed. Her judgement and sense of hearing had been dulled by the beer. She was oblivious to the fact that she sounded like an alligator wrestler in mid-fight as she struggled out of her boots. Thump, she landed heavily on one leg as she pulled off her trousers and lost her balance. And then came the noise that all husbands hate to hear after Fat Tuesday - the sound of a bundle of beads falling from their loved one's neck.

To get beads in Austin, a man has to hand over around ten dollars to a trinket seller. For a woman to get beads, she must show her tits to a man with beads. That was how the tradition started at any rate. But now, the Mardi Gras scene was much worse. Police patrol cars cordonned off 6th Street as a matter of routine. Riot police flanked the boundaries, and horses waited for the charge. Other riot police stood in circles here and there, all facing outwards with their truncheons set to stun. Now, whenever a boobs for beads transaction took place, upwards of 30 men were involved. The men encircled the boob-bearer who was ready to flash for beads. Drunk and lecherous men craned their necks and stood three or four deep to see the action. People held cameras and video cameras over the heads of the men to get a shot of the boobs.

His wife's boobs were going to be plastered on frat-boy notice boards and emailed all across the globe by the time he was reading his morning paper.
posted by Garreth at 12:53 AM

2/24/2004

Talking like a septic - lesson three :  In lieu of having anything useful to add, when someone expresses an opinion or tells you something, it is perfectly acceptable to reply with a stock meaningless phrase:

Example 1:

John: I think Ralph Nader should be killed and made a saint.
Bubba: Y'know? -- I have nothing to contribute

Example 2:

George: Def Con 1! Open the soap duckets, take to the sword!
Colon: There you go. -- I wonder what my voice sounds like now, I haven't said anything in the last 20 seconds
posted by Garreth at 1:01 PM

2/23/2004

Wee-man :  Jackass star and professional skateboarder, Jason Acuna, was spotted at the first Texas Rollergirls event of the season yesterday. By me.
posted by Garreth at 11:29 PM

Pick-me-up (off the highway) :  Don't ask me why I wanted a pickup truck. There is no real rational explanation, except I'd never had one before. So I set off to see a budget 1989 Chevy 2500 at Wholesale 2 U on South Lamar.

The first thing you should know about the Chevy 2500 with the 5.7 liter V8 is that they call it three quarter tonne. When I first saw the beast in the flesh and metal, it became clear that this does not refer to carrying weight. Three quarter tonne is the weight of the suspension alone. With little ado, and no sales patter, I was allowed to take the Chevy for a test drive. On my own. Perhaps the garage owner was too scared to co-pilot.

After I became used to the roar of the eight torpedo sized cylinders sucking torrents of fuel from the tank, I tried to close the door. It bore a vague resemblance to the right-sized door for the truck. The seat-belt didn't fasten. I slammed the door and found drive.

Ascending a bungee jump platform is less filled with dread than poking that accelerator. The noise pedal made the vehicle lurch forward, and filled the cab with the sound of the General Belgrano's engine room. Steering was more akin to moving ball-bearings with a magnet than turning a car. I dared 40 mph, before turning back to return the skyscraper on wheels to the showroom. As I turned, the door flew open, and being without seat-belt, I clung to the steering wheel to remain inside the cab.

I've gone off pickup trucks.
posted by Garreth at 4:22 PM

Tard food :  I try to avoid chain restaurants, and as I wandered past Quizno's and Taco Cabana on North Lamar, I found GM Steakhouse. If you're passing, go there. It is complete with an unintelligible short order (short bus) cook, a fat owner who sways in a rocking chair as he puffs on a fat cigar, and a restroom that is only accessible by traversing the greasepit that serves for a cooking area behind the counter. Classy and hygienic.
posted by Garreth at 3:56 PM

Three years with a psycho :  People in Austin are real friendly. Tonight I got taken out to see the Texas Rollergirls.

"What in the name of Donald Rumsfeld is that all about?" I hear you ask. In a nutshell, it is a bunch of chicks on rollerskates. It's organised like a sport such as Nascar. The girls orbit. They have bigger right legs to help them with the anti-clockwise laps. They wear indiscrete clothing, have amusing names, such as "Princess Slayer", and "Sedonya Face", and get into fights. There is a strip of fairy-lights taped to the floor to demark the edge of the track. The audience sit on the floor, protected from the flying, orbiting, fighting girls by the fairylights. The protection is inadequate, which leads to booted girls wiping out large sections of the crowd and the crowd's beer. The event is sponsored by a beer company. Four teams compete in each event. At half time a something-billy band plays. Satan's Cheerleaders dance in red leather.

The friendly Austinites point to mullets, skullets (balding mullet-sporters) and to necks that are red. They try to explain the rules. Something about hats with stars on. All I know is that fights are good, and when a girl flies around much faster than everyone else, that is good too. Someone in the middle makes up scores, and a timer is involved. After a fight, players get spanked by raffle winners from the audience as punishment.

The whole affair is relaxed. Players mingle with the audience - not just when they fly out of the track, but also between games. Locals introduced me to a few players who were keen to pose for photos and chat about the sport. When I explained that I only had a tourist visa and could remain for just 90 days, the Austinites were sad, and offered to help. They chose me a Texas Rollergirl and said that they would get her to marry me. She is Dynah-mite from the Hustlers. They said that this would allow me to stay in the US and give me three years of fun with a psycho. I believe they genuinely would try to fix a marriage for me, such is their hospitality, but I just found out that Dinah-mite is married with children already. Maybe they'll set me up with Buckshot Betsy instead.
posted by Garreth at 12:14 AM

2/22/2004

Talking like a septic - lesson two :  Any sequence of words is acceptable if context dictates a predictable question.

Example greeting:
Chad: What's going down? -- How are you?
Hank: You bro. -- I'm fine, thank you. The weather is particularly clement for the time of year
Carlton: Same ol', same ol'. -- I'm quite content
Burgundy: Ain't dying yet. -- I'm feeling chipper, thanks for asking
posted by Garreth at 10:26 AM

Democracy - money is not our god :  "Vote Clint J Wainwright Washington Sr. for Janitor" - everywhere you go in Texas, there are pictures of men wanting to be voted in to some position or onto some committess or other. There are signs in gardens, in windows, hanging on your door, stuck to the bumpers of SUVs. This so-called democracy sure does well for people in the color-printing business. Some junk hung on our apartment door handle tells me that Lloyd Doggett should stay in US congress. I took this picture while driving to Houston.

It's all nonsense. This is the party you want to be voting for - everyone for president.
posted by Garreth at 10:23 AM

2/21/2004

Things not to do in a boxing gym volume two :  Don't count aloud when doing exercises. It makes the boxers nervous.
posted by Garreth at 5:11 PM

We be bodymoving :  Usually when you dance around in a circle and make everyone in the circle take turns at doing a speciality dance in the centre, you are drunk. Powered by alcohol, you take on superhuman abilities - this is how cidered tramps manage to throw shopping trolleys onto high tree branches. My speciality dance is the squatting and lunging of the Cossack. I'm not sure if real Cossacks do it, but it's the one where you have one leg stretched in front of you, while you squat down on the other one. Then you leap in the air with the bent leg, and reverse legs. It's amazingly hard to do, and murders your quadriceps. It is only possible for me after I decide it's a good idea to do it, which is generally after I take on superhuman invincible immortal strenght, which is generally after I'm on the wrong side of a bottle of hard liquor.

This morning I went to boxing training and discovered I don't punch like a girl after holding the punch bag for a girl. I punch much softer than a girl. Then I went to a fine breakdancing class at the Ground Zero of urban dance. The class consisted of the ever agile Blitz, (real name Jebediah Ramsbottom - probably) four kids under ten, and two growed-ups. The end of the class saw a freestyle section, with everyone in a circle. I was on an adrenaline high from the day's activities, and wheeled out my Cossack dancing. Down I fell to the one legged squatting. My legs felt like they've had ten rounds of Prince Naseem rather than a fortifying ten rounds with the king of beers. I went down. There I stayed to the amusement of the class, unable to get up. I tried to turn it into a floor-based helicopter dance, but my legs had given in, and where no longer capable of a Texas two step, let alone the New York five step or the rotary six step. I stuck to ballet for my next free-style dance interpretation. No-one knew that I knew nothing about ballet.
posted by Garreth at 5:03 PM

2/20/2004

I am what I consume :  I need stuff. Or at least I want stuff. Like a car or a truck or a bike. So I look in the classifieds. My favourite ad today reads like this:

"Blood covered 1992 cougar

1992 mercury cougar, purple and white.137000 miles.little front end damage from running over 2 senior citzions.Most of the blood and stuff is still there.5000$ with blood,7000$ without it. The only problem is the car aim's for the elderly now so there will probally be more body parts on it somewhere. If you want a car that scares the hell out of little old men and woman this is it. I am willing to trade for a big truck,I want to run over younger people so I need a bigger motor...more speed more victims!"


I hope a cougar is a car, and not just an animal.
posted by Garreth at 2:53 AM

2/19/2004

Things to do in Austin, Texas number one :  Go to see Dr. Tran and friends at Spike and Mike's sick and twisted animation festival at the Alamo Drafthouse. Movies and booze and food brought to you by waiters in the dark.
posted by Garreth at 10:40 AM

Talking like a septic - lesson one :  If you are a septic, it is perfectly acceptable to end a sentence with a preposition.

Example when returning a rental car:
Rhona: Where's it at?
How much fuel remains in the vehicle's petrol tank?
posted by Garreth at 10:07 AM

Tech guy :  Director - What's that volume on the effects?
Me - Er. Ten.
Director - OK. I want it at eleven.

One of the best things about helping out at a theatre is getting to turn the sound up to eleven. Other great things in this particular play are the cast, the tasteful nudity, lapdancers and bunnie girls. I'm not sure if this is normal for most actors, but drinking beer and smoking reefers seems to be the best way to prepare to go onstage for the cast of Wilhelm Reich in Hell.

On my first day, Marilyn Munroe passes me in a corridor, wearing nothing save a pharoah's hat. I thought of polite chit chat options.

• Nice tits - the nipple-o-meter says it's cold in here or you're excited to see me
• Nice hat
• Lovely weather for the time of year, especially since it was snowing last weekend

2/18/2004

Sweet forward momentum :  In my own personal tradition of "train easy, fight hard", I have agreed to race Carl Lewis in around two weeks time. I started training today, after running away from my apartment when it had no water or electricity. I don't plan on training much, so the actual race on March 6th might be quite challenging for me. But I will win. Carl Lewis? Past-it, has-been multiple olympic medal winning runner. Me? In my prime, a dark horse who has refrained from entering international competition thus far. Lewis? Very dangerous over short distances. Me? Not very dangerous over short distances. But I don't have to cart around as much bulky muscle as Lewis does. This is why I have challenged him to a race, in front of all of Austin, Texas.

I managed to run 4km today before getting bored (threatening to expire) I'm saving myself for March 6th. Throw yourself into the road Lewis, you don't stand a chance.

posted by Garreth at 1:53 AM

2/17/2004

Buzz Lightyear :  Lance Armstrong is from Austin. He's very good at cycling. Especially in France.

Austin consequently has many cycle paths. I was surprised that these were not horizontal air-conditioned paths, tunnelled through the hills, but then maybe that's because I spent last week in a car. Surrounded by lazy motorists who travel in complete isolation behind darkened windows. I covered 730 miles in my hire car last week - taking off the Houston journey that implies 400 miles in Austin. Round and around, getting lost on skyways, flyways, parkways, byways and myways.

Carless this week, I bought a bicycle from a pawn shop. If the bicyle were a horse it would have been shot. If it were a car, it would be on blocks in the back yard, and a family of ferrets would have moved into the glove compartment. I have managed two miles on my 50 dolllar bike so far. I think I might borrow one of my room mates guns, spraypaint the word "horse" on it and shoot it.
posted by Garreth at 10:30 AM

Eager beaver :  Somehow I managed to volunteer to help out in a play that opens in a local theatre on Thursday. The best thing about the whole gig is that theatre lovies seem to think that English accents are a boon. It's as if they think acting was invented in England. Meeting the actors resulted in me talking normally. The actors assumed that I was putting on an English accent. The actors would then reply in their best English accents. Just like being in the home counties.

The play is jolly interesting. If you're in the area, I heartily recommend it.

posted by Garreth at 10:17 AM

Journey into the inner self :  You learn many things about yourself when you commence Bruce's KO Boxing training. Firstly you learn that you would never want to be put in a ring with someone like Bruce, despite his amiable out-of-ring character. Secondly, you learn that inadvertantly throwing a medicine ball at Bruce's favourite testicle is not a good idea. I learnt that skipping is actually very difficult and I have a new found respect for schoolgirls who can chant, skip and chew gum all at the same time. By the end of the first class, I could just about skip like a three-legged bison rather than a nimble schoolgirl. It's a pity that I can only punch like a schoolgirl.
posted by Garreth at 10:07 AM

Pop quiz :  You are in a new apartment. The girl who just moved out is known to have many debts, and debt collection agencies interested in her. Suddenly the electricity cuts out to the apartment. Then the water goes off. Do you:

a) Phone the utilities companies to investigate the problem
b) Phone the girl who moved out
c) Find a bar that opens at 10am and wait for someone else to get home and figure it out
posted by Garreth at 9:59 AM

2/16/2004

Ryan's bloody torso :  It was the last advert for a room mate in the Austin Chronicle. Many had been crossed out as too far out in one way or another. The remainder had words like "arse" and "pervert" written in big letters over them, after the numbers had revealed strange voices on the owners answerphones. You can tell a great deal about people from their answerphone messages. That's why I always lie on mine.

Ryan's answerphone message seemed efficient and polite. His voice seemed reasonable, and he didn't sound like he was strangling poultry as he recorded it. I left a message, and presently got a call back. That was quick, I thought, perhaps he is desperate for a room mate.

I explained my Englishness and particular housing needs, and received unconditional approval over the phone. Far too desperate, I thought. I went to see the apartment.

Ryan opened the door, and ushered me into the lounge. He had just graduated, and was wearing what can best be described as on the too smart side of smart-casual. The last ten issues of the Economist were carefully fanned out on the coffee table. Great care had been taken to make them look casually placed, to no effect. While I scanned the place, Ryan asked me some questions which I answered with the minimal amount of information. France. England. Since Sunday. Canada.

At each answer, Ryan would start a dull short story about a "friend" he had in each of the countries I mentioned. I asked him what he did. He told me what he did, and he replied with a long-winded answer about his plans to move to DC to work for the government, and his present job with the map department of the university as he adjusted his glasses. I resisted the urge to ask him if he did much photocopying and stapling.

He showed me the bathroom with two sinks. Very useful if two people want to shave at the same time or something, he told me.

I made to leave. He asked me if I was serious about the place, in a tone that tried to hide his desperation and made him sound like a real-estate agent.

I turned to him, and looked at him. I told him that I can't believe he managed to get this far in life without someone beating some of his pretentiousness out of him. I told him that he would never get a room mate, and that he didn't have any friends. I told him to live a little, have some fun, not to try so hard to impress. I turned to leave, but then stopped. I was feeling kind. I thought I would do the guy a favour. I turned back to him and beat seven shades of preppy pretentiousness out of him with the the vacuum cleaner. He might get a room mate now, I thought to myself as I stepped over his twitching body.

Actually, I said that I still had a few more places to see, and that I'd call him.
posted by Garreth at 11:15 AM

Room hunting :  Looking for a room to rent is an initially daunting task for a stranger in a foreign land. But it can be fun. The best time to do it is when you really don't need a room. You get to see how other people live. You can have spontaneous attacks of quivering and twitching. Watch your host's face when you mutter about plenty of room to bury corpses in the back yard.
posted by Garreth at 10:46 AM

I have done my first dumpster diving :  I made a coffee table out of bits of wood, and have a large pylon in the front lawn. Austin used to be famous for its high street lamps in the last century, don't you know.
posted by Garreth at 12:22 AM

2/13/2004

Day six in Texas :  I now have somewhere to live, and I was on the radio today. Blimey - the land of opportunity indeed. I am thinking of running for governor soon, and then perhaps becoming president by the end of the month. Then, Emperor of Europe I think. Cheap wine for all and no cabbage.
posted by Garreth at 1:14 PM

2/11/2004

My only friends are make-believe :  I have a new phone. I have added the phone numbers of people offering accommodation into it. They're not real friends, but it looks a bit sad having no-one in your contact list.

I met a man at Pecan Grove RV park while I was enquiring about living there yesterday. He was a very friendly resident who was hanging out in the office, and was very helpful. He gave me his phone number and offered to show me around Austin with his girlfriend, as well as answering all of my trailer park questions. I haven't seen such a helpful and gormless but enthusiastic person since I last went to a recruitment centre for the Church of Scientology. I didn't put his number into my phone.
posted by Garreth at 9:54 PM

So Yesterday :  My fortune cookie yesterday said, "Do something unusual tomorrow." It wasn't the voices in my head that told me, or my alarm clock talking to me. Honest. So today I tried. I tried to join a co-operative commune. I tried to buy a shotgun. I walked around in a t-shirt emblazoned with the flag of a country that some people might claim had won a war against the US. I bought girl-scout cookies. None of these things feel unusual enough. I still have a few hours left. Oh things would be different if they'd sold me that shotgun. I'd be doing something unusual with it in the AT&T office. Unusual for me at least, if not for postal workers.
posted by Garreth at 9:52 PM

Come the glorious day of the revolution, AT&T will be first against the wall :  Austin Good, AT&T Bad

Austin is great. If you don't have access to the internet, simply drive into any suburb with a laptop with a wireless network card. Within the space of three blocks, you will always find someone who has left a linksys wireless access point running for you to use for free. While on the move, I often find myself driving slowly down small residential roads to get a signal for my laptop. The last three days spent driving while looking at a map have been good practice - now I drive and look at a computer. I do this as I am cheap and too lazy to find a place to pay for internet access.

AT&T are worse than dreadful. My shiny new mobile phone on the AT&T network behaves pretty similar to the laptop above. I have to drive around slowly looking for a signal before I can use the thing. Except that with the mobile phone, I pay AT&T for the privilege. It's like using a mobile phone in the UK in 1996. You have to lean out of windows, hang out of moving vehicles and all that nineties malarky. AT&T sucks goats.


Austin Good, AT&T Dreadful

I arrived in Austin on Monday afternoon. By Wednesday lunchtime, I had a driver's licence, bank account, mobile phone and if I'd have been happy to live with a freak, I could have had a place to live not too far from downtown. Oh, and I found out how to get pretty much any gun I wanted. In England, the same achievements would have taken me weeks. Took me about 24 years the first time around. And I never managed the gun. By far the hardest thing to get here was the AT&T 'gophone'. And it's the worst. Did I mention how dismal AT&T are? Good. Just so long as you know. And don't expect to get through to me on it.
posted by Garreth at 9:51 PM

Mental note - must reproduce and name my firstborn Randy Malibu Sr. III :  Randy is a cliche in a sweatshirt. He is my new best friend, and coincidentally a lead fitness consultant. I go to Gold's Gym on a free five day pass issued to me by Randy. Randy Ruiz. From his family name and general demeanour, I assume his Mexican father inseminated a Texan cow, and after gestation, Randy popped out. Randy is as subtle as haemorrhoids in an arsehole convention, and looks a bit like Barney Rubble on steroids. He constantly hacks and snorts as if he was born with spittin' tobaccy in his mouth. He shakes my hand about seven times a day with his own oversized mitt as he talks to me in the West Ben White branch of Gold's Gym. He laughs loudly (after a short delay) when I say something vaguely witty, and encourages me to think again about membership of the gym. His heart's in the right place. He knows I should join his gym. For my own good. And he probably needs to keep up payments on his wakeboarding boat with the strap-on bikini clad barbies. He showed me the photos when we first met at my gym induction. It was if to say that all this could be mine if I joined Gold's Gym.
posted by Garreth at 9:49 PM

2/10/2004

Losing my religion :  Monday - three people complement my accent.
Tuesday - one person asks me if I'm Irish. I think I must be losing my accent.
posted by Garreth at 10:08 PM

Go me :  According to the Texas Department of Public Safety, I have the driving ability of a teenage Texan high-school kid. Huzzah! The speeding in the rain, not understanding US road signs, and going around turns too fast apparently qualify me as a driver here.
posted by Garreth at 11:52 AM

Biscuits and Gravy :  Again, sounds like the end scene of a porno movie. Turns out to be scones and some sort of white creamy goo.
posted by Garreth at 11:49 AM

2/09/2004

Grape Jelly :  Sounds like it should be a product for, or a by-product of anal sex. Turns out it is just a sweet preserve one spreads on one's biscuits in Texas. Not those biscuits.
posted by Garreth at 5:21 PM

Feeling like a criminal :  Running in a European city is a great way to get acquainted with the local geography, and gives you a better feel for a place than driving through or taking public transport. It's a bit different in Texas due to the enormous amounts of space they have - Houston is as big as Israel and and El Salvador for example. I got a sense for the tiny town of Hampstead as I ran through it though this morning. It was quiet, decaying, and the best business to have set up in the last decade would be the one that boards up windows in dilapidated premises. A billboard above a row of run-down ugly building summed it up. The peeling poster on it read simply, "We buy ugly houses". Clearly they no longer did, or if they did, they boarded up the windows.

I ran past a school run with tiny children disembarking from giant pickups. I ran through a used car lot so large that there were golf carts to ferry customers to see their vehicles. I ran back to the Super Sleazy motel, and struggled with my key for five minutes, trying to gain access to room 104. As I did so, a police cruiser pulled up and a crew-cut monster of a man got out and asked me what was going on here.

I put on my most posh English humble accent and explained that I was trying to gain access to my motel room. I lowered the hood of my sweatshirt to help the goliath law enforcer to distinguish me from a crack addled gunman trying to break a lock, murder some tourists and steal their twinkies.

Our pleasant little chat expanded to what I had been doing this morning, and I confirmed his suspicions that I had been running. I confirmed that I had unexpectedly run through a primary school before realising what it was.

"You had them pretty much on a scare alert at the school.", he said. "We don't get too many people runnin' around here. They called me out to come pick you up. Do you have any ID?"

I explained it was behind the lockeddoor, and we got the manager to open the door. The manager looked even more terrified than I did by Chief Donnie Mordeln. Perhaps he had something to hide. Even though I was innocent and not some junky paedophile, I couldn't help feeling a little guilty. In England, the middle-class fear the police. In Texas, I suspect everyone does.

Chief went off with my ID, disappointed that I had never been in the military despite the crew-cut in my photos, and left me to stew in my room. As the minutes turned into half an hour, my paranoia stewed into a casserole. My imagination turned ugly with the fact that my driver's licence and passport have different names, and that this might be a cause for some confusion in the bovine police officer's investigations. Oh, and I'd used a false name and address on the motel registration form too.

Chief eventually returned to my room with a polaroid camera and a violation ticket. My imagination reeled with Pulp Fiction like possibilities that I may have to squeal like a pig to erase my impending criminal record and have all the action taken away as photographic keep-sakes. Luckily, I didn't have to do any ass-clowning and the Chief crossed out "Criminal Tresspass" in the violation box, and wrote "Criminal Tresspass Warning" in the warning box.

He assured me that he wasn't mad at me or nothing, and I wasn't in no trouble, and asked me for the fourth time what I was doing in the area. Getting the hot-diggity darn out as fast as possible I thought. 11 hours in town before my first brush with the Texas lawmen - bodes well.
posted by Garreth at 3:05 PM

TV USA :  The motel arrived eventually. For some reason, I had assumed that the highway would be a continuous stream of endless strip malls and motels. I would be offered a never-ending range of price and quality. Two hours out of the airport, and I resorted to asking someone for the nearest - not the cheapest or best - motel. At just over 30 dollars, the Super Z in Hampstead, Texas had perhaps been robbed of the other letters in its name, or sold them off in leaner times. A "Slea" and a "y" were missing from the second word.

The room was big, and had a television larger than my fridge in the UK, and a fridge larger than my last car in the UK. I flicked the super-sized screen to watch 'Urban Cowboy' - John Travolta's unlikely mechanical cowboy flick from 1980. It seemed an appropriate choice for my Texas initiation. I was shocked when waking up to not find Jerry Hall and another cowgal entangled in my limbs, as had happened to Travolta's character, Bud. Mind you, it is only day one, and I haven't had the chance to strut my Travolta two-step. Or beaten up any women.

Judging by the post film TV, Texas interests are divided between:

2% straight white porn, mainly focussing on oral sex given by women
8% god and guilt
24% high jinks with cows in one way or another
14% turning your recession ridden possessions into CASH, yes CASH, CASH with a reverb as you say CASH or managing your credit card debt now that the economy is screwed
8% sports events of stupefying boringness and slow pace
24% crime (real) - police shows, crimes against taste in the dress sense of weather casters
20% crime (pretend), and random mutilations - Stallone, Norris, Arnold and Willis were within one sweep of the channels this evening
posted by Garreth at 3:01 PM

Paris or Texas :  I was in France last week. This week I are mostly in Texas.

In France: the shuttle bus driver drops you off in the rain at one of three rental car stops, claiming not to know where one of the seven rental outlets is. Like he doesn't drive past all of the signs every fifteen minutes for 40 hours a week.

In Houston: the shuttle bus driver waits for you at the stop and comes back into the bus to chat. You pick up tips on how to choose a car judging by the money the car salesman has spent on his shoes and watch. He wishes you a prosperous and enjoyable trip, and talks about the weather. His name is Maurice.

posted by Garreth at 2:52 PM

Leaving England :  I confessed to the taxi driver on the way to the train station that I had no idea what I was going to Texas for. A train journey and some bracing tins of Strongbow Super later, I was in London. Suitably enboldened, I was ready for the onslaught of cross capital travel, and smiled at the familiarness of it all - the predictable ex-lover who you weren't particularly pleased to see again, but could easily negotiate with. I smirked at the illegal ticket recyclers who waited by the entrance to Kings Cross underground station, and bought a cheap ticket, happy to defraud London Transport for its many failures. On the tube, I thought of some of the things I had answered to people who had asked me why I was going to Texas: to become a professional bodybuilder, to become a boxer, to get a gun, to join alcoholics anonymous, to live in a trailer park. I had a curry with some friends and set off the next morning to the airport.

The last time I had been in Chicago, I had been tasked with drunkenly returning someone's hire car on the way to the airport. On a whim, I stopped at a firing range, and was amazed that despite being a little unsteady on my feet and stinking of beer, I was allowed with very little ID to rent the biggest hand-gun they had - the Desert Eagle point five-oh. The oh was short for "oh dear", as I turned heads and bowels in the small range with the meaty hand cannon.

This time Chicago was sober, and the venue for a tedious exercise in getting off a plane, going through immigration, collecting my bags, going through customs, and rechecking my bags to get back onto the original plane to go to Houston. I hadn't been transatlantic in a while, but I shut out the birds-eye views of ice-flows and coasts to better concentrate on watching a film I'd seen before on a six inch screen stuck twelve inches in front of my face. Surely this was man in control of his environment - stunning scenery blocked by a thin plastic shutter so that people can watch moving pictures of other people acting as other people.

Immigration was relatively painless, despite my fears after being led away and interrogated a few years ago when entering the US. I put it down to wearing my lucky silk shirt - it has buttons, a collar and all the other trappings of respectability. The security inspectors seem to have been to charm school since they last used to prod and poke me with surly faces. One held up a british pound coin and said, "What can I buy for this in England?" I assumed he had been rifling through my wallet, and that he was now asking me trick questions. Lamely I replied,
"A cup of coffee." and he amazed me by replying with a kind of witty second question, "Would it get me a pound of coffee?" I laughed as politely as a man who has to hold his trousers up as his belt is X-rayed can laugh. I was in the US.
posted by Garreth at 2:51 PM

Bulmers Meeting :  "Ah yes, and now for your report Miss Wismar. How are you going to increase sales in the budget end of the Bulmers cider range?"

"Well, we want to focus on the higher strength ciders. As you know we've been researching our target market of Strongbow Super drinkers for the last six months, and we have some interesting results. The alcohol content as you all know is 9 per cent. Our customers reach saturation of our product in a given binge session, after between two and eight cans. The median purchase is three cans. After this, our research shows us that most of our customers reach the soil point."

"The soil point, Miss Wismar? What the dickens is the soil point?"

"It's when our customers can't really drink too much more, without, er, how shall I put it? Without... losing continence. Over a period of time, most of our customer base purchases just below the soil point. And this is where we can increase sales."

"Excellent, Miss Wismar, pray tell us how?"

"Well, we drop the alcohol by volume to 7.5 per cent, we up the anti-emetics to avoid vomitting, and we keep the same great flavour. But it takes the customer more cans to get to the soil point. This makes the two can drinker into a three can drinker, and the median now becomes a four can drinker, bringing in more revenues. We adjust the small print so that it says 'extra strong cider' instead of 'super strong cider' and no-one will be the wiser."

"Splendid. Pass me the horse grinder Miss Wismar."

posted by Garreth at 2:46 PM

2/06/2004

Surtout le pont d'Avignon - a brief history of bashing the bishop :  For almost a century, the phatest pontiffs in the world chilled in a bad-ass crib in france, because the Italians didn't like them very much. In 1309, his holiness the new pope showed up here and built a big palace fortress after being turfed out by some mean home-boys in Rome. Technically, Rome was wherever the pope was, but they still called the city Avignon so as not to confuse the locals, and so that they didn't have to pay for new road signs.

According to records from the time, Pope Clement VI's coronation needed 1023 sheep, 50,000 tarts, and 95,000 loaves of bread amongst other things. His holiness the pope was the only guy at the feast with a knife, except for the master carver, so that no-one could stab him, and because the pope liked to watch people struggle to eat sheep without the proper implements. His pope-i-ness the hole was a little unpopular and quite greedy, but is credited with inventing the themed "kebabs and tarts" nights that are still popular in northern England.

Several decades later, there was a great schism in the catholic church. It was a bit like a split or a rift, but the word "schism" made it sound less like a soap opera, and more like a pope opera because it is harder to spell. Later still, the french invented a new post, and voted in some guy to become the "anti-pope". Disappointingly, this bloke was not a pope-killer who drank lots, smoked big reefers and tried to subvert the minds of innocent teenagers.

The catholic church now had two heads, two places to have matches, and the fans were divided. Some liked the original Chianti quoffing gangsta from Roman Rome, and some followed the mac daddy with the pointiest hat from Avignon. During the schism, and ensuing confusion, the money from the gates was down, so the church decided to get rid of one of its heads. They were going to make the pope and the anti-pope duke it out on Pay per View, but neither party wanted to fight in their away ground, so the church never fixed a venue. The church decided that since they were the biggest landowner in the world, they didn't need the cash from Pay per View anyway, so they just got rid of the anti-pope. They reunited the fans, and they saved money by not having to change all of their books to say anti-pope instead of pope.

The catholic church still exists today, and people still worship the pope, who after all, used to play football in Poland. But then again hasn't every European played football in Poland?
posted by Garreth at 8:01 AM

Quote of the week :  "Not leaf-blower aliens, tentacle aliens" - Homer Simpson explaining the threat of meltdown to Mr. Burns in the Simpsons Hit and Run game.
posted by Garreth at 7:56 AM

Heads For Goalposts :  During the first half hour of the first world war, the french government didn't surrender their country to anyone who asked nicely, much to the surprise of the rest of the world. Instead, they took the sensible approach, and used the excuse of war to plant more vineyards in the Cote du Rhone region. They did this under the guise of providing each french soldier with their daily ration of one litre of wine. Crikey. I thought drinking a bottle and a half of plonk each day was a disease. Espeicially when I spent three months overseas, and returned to my house stuffed full of the -indelible glass evidence of a friend's semi-professional wine habit. But 80 years ago, it was apparently the norm. A litre of wine per man per day - a man with a gun, no woman, and probably a kilo of cheese and onions. Yeesh.

A daily litre of wine ration has made me think differently about the Somme - that soggy-assed battlefield where trench warfare was tried and discarded as a failed experiment in mass life-extinction. No wonder everyone went "over the top", and played football with the bosch on Christmas day. They'd saved their rations for a week and all had eight bottles of wine each for breakfast. The trenches were covered in vomit and kebabs by about midday so they climbed out to try and get a bit of dark bread from the opposition to soak up the mess. The bosch tried to shoot the weaving and staggering combattants to little effect and eventually sent out soldiers to investigate the apparent bullet immunity of the french. The french responded with offers of wine for the invincible unrottable bosch bread, and football, naturally followed, as sure as violence follows team sport.
posted by Garreth at 7:54 AM

Should I stay or should I go now? :  I have surpassed the Sire in terms of price now - conte Lodovico costs just 0.85 Euro a pop. It's so cheap I've left a bottle in the street for over a day to chill, and no-one has run away with it. Tramps and winos in france must live like kings. It is cheaper than water. Sod asses milk, you could bathe in bubbly for the price of a flight from Lyon to Stansted.

posted by Garreth at 7:53 AM

Drink of Kings :  A bottle of this explosive fizzy white wine could be picked up in Les Menuires for as little as 1.42 Euro. Given that the supermarket probably adds 30% markup, the logistics of getting a bottle up a mountain costs 40% and the bottle and label account for 10% of the selling price, experts might suspect that the quality of the booze might suffer. But the beau Sire doesn't disappoint even the most cynical of pallettes - this violent fluid comes in both brut and demi-sec varieties. One drinker was reported as saying,

"By jiminy, it's almost worth getting married with champagne at this price."
posted by Garreth at 7:53 AM

Beee San kont der :  How can the B52 be called something else in France? "B cinquant-deux" indeed. I can put up with a San Francisco B52 being mixed and not having distinct layers of goodness in a shotglass. Mainly because you get about half a pint of mixed Baileys, Grand Marnier and Kahlua in a half pint glass in San Francisco. The volume makes up for the sloppy presentation. But when you get a tiny shotglass full of mixed up booze, and the barwench insists on lighting it and giving you a straw to drink it through, that really takes the biscuit.

I gave the barmaid a chance. I asked for a house special shooter. Surely this would be better presented. The "aZboob night shooter" duly arrived, and it tasted quite horrific, the inky blackcurrant disguising the secret payload of congealed baileys in vodka. After swallowing the snotty mouthful, the barmaiden informed me this was a woman's drink, and she pointed to her mouth and waved her hand a bit to either imply that she either thought that swallowing snotty mouthfuls was either a woman's role in life or that the drink was too sweet - I never did find out. I was intrigued by this bar attendant's views of gender roles and alcohol, so I asked her for a man's shooter. She brought back something approximating horse mouthwash, and indicated that it should be swilled before swallowing. Perhaps to let the delicate flavour of bleach to take hold on the pallette.

Three strikes and the barstaffer was out. We left for the gunfight in the nearby nightclub with no more shooters under our belts.
posted by Garreth at 7:52 AM